


Want Back My Ignorance and Bliss

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 11:30:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2506202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  What happens the next time Oliver touches Felicity? <b>SPOILERS for 3x01 and 3x02</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	Want Back My Ignorance and Bliss

**Author's Note:**

> THANKS: to katelinnea and youguysimserious for soldiering through the angst to beta this sadness. :)
> 
> DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to DC and Warner Bros. Title from Pink’s _Blow Me (One Last Kiss)_.

Felicity missed his touch.

The heavy, comforting warmth of his hand on her shoulder, his fingers curling gently around her biceps, fingertips occasionally skimming her ribcage -- that was her favorite. But there were other touches, too -- the rare hug, which he never returned with more than one arm; the brush of their hands when they exchanged folders or other items. A few times, she was sure he’d ghosted his fingers along her ponytail as he stood behind her chair in the foundry, even though she could never prove it. 

God, she missed the way they’d touched each other _so_ much. 

Felicity knew she shouldn’t miss it, but she did. She wasn’t sure she’d really realized what they were doing those few months before their date -- the casual touching, the not-so-subtle flirting.

Well, okay, fine, she’d known what they were doing, but she hadn’t been able to persuade herself to put a stop to it. She hadn’t really wanted to. Because Felicity had been so sure for so long that her feelings for Oliver were unrequited, but the way he was around her -- the blissful, beaming looks he gave her that were _so_ different from the brooding, constrained man she’d met -- well, it was hard to ignore. She’d still tried her hardest to maintain plausible deniability about Oliver’s apparent feelings for her, but she knew, deep down, what was going on. And the casual, lingering touches -- they’d just felt like part of the natural progression. Like the best part of anticipation. Like that weightless moment when you actually reach for something you want so, so badly. Like something they both knew was inevitable.

Only it wasn’t, because Oliver wouldn’t let it be. And now -- they didn’t touch. At all. 

In the weeks since their one and only date they didn’t smile at each other like they used to. _He_ didn’t smile much at all, and Felicity missed it. She ached whenever he came back from patrolling with his face a blanked, marble mask, his body held tight with tension. She pressed her lips together to keep her anguish inside each time he glanced at her and then away, like it hurt him too much to even look at her. And she swallowed the frustration she felt every time he clenched his jaw when she mentioned her job at QC.

It was awful and uncomfortable, and she was angry, but it didn’t matter. He’d made his choice, and they both had to live with it. They both had to adjust to the change, to the new distance between them. 

All things considered, what with the best, most unexpected first date conversation she’d ever had in her life being followed closely by the most frustrating and gut-wrenching breakup she’d ever had, well -- Felicity was doing as okay as she could be. The new job was challenging and a relief, because it allowed her to use her skillset and her brain in the way she wanted. And it took up a lot of time, so she had more space to breathe, to repair the damage she and Oliver had both done by letting their walls tumble down. For nothing.

Walls were good. Boundaries. Rules. Felicity was in favor of all of those things. Strongly in favor.

And once Oliver had broken her heart, she’d drawn up some rules for herself -- no touching, no lingering glances, definitely no watching him train. 

It sucked and she hated it and her stupid, traitorous heart still hoped every single day would be the day that Oliver admitted he was wrong -- the day he decided to fight for her. But she kept her chin up and kept moving. Swim or die. Not that she really thought she was a _shark_ , but the metaphor never made much sense to her until suddenly it did. Because she knew if she stopped working so much, if she stopped occupying her time, if she stopped making sure Oliver was safely at a distance, she would fall apart. 

& & &

Felicity was moving around the lair, flitting between her workstation and the larger monitor, talking a mile a minute about possible locations and cross-referencing the city’s ordinances with zoning variances when Oliver grasped her elbow to catch her attention.

And she stopped moving. 

She flinched, and Oliver stiffened beside her, and it was everything she didn’t want to have happen. It was everything that was awful and wrong and painful between them.

Oliver dropped his hand away from her with a sharp inhale, and Felicity’s eyes were stinging, suddenly. They were alone in the lair, and the sudden, tense silence was like a physical weight.

“Felicity--”

“Don’t,” she interrupted. “No. You can’t do this.” She rounded on him, so mad, and hating the fact that her eyes were filling with angry tears. (She wouldn’t acknowledge any other possible reason for the tears. Like heartbreak.) 

Oliver watched her with that same look he’d given her in the hospital, that sorrowful face, and he nodded slowly. “I’m sorry.”

“You can’t touch me,” Felicity said, unable to deal with any more of his apologies. Because no matter how often or how sincerely he offered them, they didn’t matter. He chose this sad, isolated life. He chose it over her, which she could only understand as proof that his guilt, his pain, and his torment were more important to him than she could ever be. Even if he said he loved her.

Even if he _did_ love her, he didn’t love her the way she needed him to.

“I didn’t mean to--” Oliver stopped, cleared his throat. “I didn’t want things to change between us.” He shrugged, looking helpless and defeated, which was a change from the grim, tense thing he’d had going on lately. But Felicity didn’t think it was an improvement, especially when he turned sad eyes to her and added, “After.”

Her laugh was bitter. Such a small word, _after_ , for the vastness it encompassed. “Are you kidding?” she demanded. “You didn’t want things to _change_? Well, actually,” she continued, her tone sarcastic and cutting, and she knew she was hurting him, but she couldn’t quite make herself stop, “you _did_ want things to change, and then you took that back, and _now_ you don’t want things to be different. Only Oliver-approved changes are okay.”

His hand lifted toward her, but he caught himself, his fingers closing into a fist as he dropped his arm to the side. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. With me.”

She looked away from him, unable to deal with the storm in his eyes. “Well, I didn’t want you to tell me you loved me and then push me away,” she said tiredly, “but we can’t always get what we want.” Her anger was gone, and all of her anguish rushed in to fill the void. She could feel tears threatening, and she wanted nothing more than to run, but she was rooted to the spot.

“Felicity…”

Her eyes shut, and she lifted a hand to press her thumb and middle finger against her eyelids until she saw spots. “Please don’t do this, Oliver,” she whispered.

“I just-- How can I fix this?” he asked -- pleaded, actually, and his tone was so soft and so earnest that her eyes stung. “How can I make this better?”

“You can’t touch me like nothing’s changed when everything has,” she answered, and her voice sounded desperate to her own ears. “You can’t keep bringing this up when I’m trying to survive it. I need you to just _stop_.”

“Felicity.” 

She didn’t look up, couldn’t bear to see the devastation in his face from this choice he _kept_ making. 

He repeated her name, urgently. “Felicity!”

Crossing her arms, she inhaled and looked up. “What?”

“This isn’t what I want,” he confessed, his eyes bright and glassy with unshed tears, his voice rough and low and earnest. “I still want -- this,” he told her. Felicity hated herself for the little flare of hope she felt, because she _knew_ what was coming next. She hated everything about being right. “I just… I can’t.”

“Why are you _doing_ this?” she demanded, tears falling now. She swiped her face, frustrated. “What possible good can come of breaking my heart over and over again? I get it,” she said, her voice growing louder. “Message received. Loud and clear.”

“Felicity, you have to know that I wish--”

“Stop,” she practically shouted. “Wishes don’t matter. Choices do, and you already made yours.” She half-turned away from him, breathing hard and staring at his row of arrows.

He dropped his chin, remaining quiet for a long moment. “I’m sorry.”

An uncomfortable silence spooled out between them. She didn’t know how to break it, because he _was_ sorry. She knew that he was, but she also knew he’d never change his mind. 

So Felicity steeled herself and turned back to face him, studying the slump of his shoulders, how tightly he held himself, the way he pressed his palms against his thighs. The worst thing was that she wanted to comfort him, to hug him, to ease some of his pain. Because she loved him, and when he hurt, she hurt. But he wouldn’t let her, wouldn’t accept her comfort. 

And what else was there left to say?

“I’m sorry, too,” she whispered. “We could’ve been great, Oliver. But I can’t pretend.” He looked up, brow furrowed in a question. She shrugged. “I can’t pretend you didn’t choose everything else instead of me.” He opened his mouth to argue, and she held up a hand and corrected herself. “You chose me, Oliver, but then you _un_ -chose me. I can’t forget how happy I was, and I can’t forget how hurt I am. So I’m sorry, but you can’t touch me, and you can’t make me talk about this. _Ever again_. You found your limits, figured out what you could handle and what you couldn’t, and I’m respecting that. You need to respect mine.”

He looked away, pressing his palms hard against his thighs, and she wondered if he was keeping himself from reaching for her. Oliver swallowed once, and again, and said, “I don’t want to lose you.”

Felicity held his gaze. “It would be so much easier,” she admitted. She’d thought about it, of course she had. Clean break, just rip off the bandaid and find a new job, new life, maybe even a new city. But she’d made a home here. Literally here, in the foundry, with more than just Oliver, and she could no sooner leave Diggle or Roy than she could Oliver or their work.

Oliver’s eyes widened, and he stood, not moving, not even breathing until she continued.

“I wish I could walk away, but this,” she said, gesturing around them, at the lair, at her workstation, “this is important to me, too. So I’ll be here. Okay?”

He nodded slowly, looking uncertain, like he wasn’t sure he believed she’d really stay. Like he was afraid he was going to lose her, too. Which was infuriating, when he was the one pushing her away in the first place.

“Just…” Felicity swiped her fingers across her cheeks, wiping away the wetness. “You have to let me be.”

“I’ll try,” he vowed, his voice broken.

They stood there for a long moment, not quite looking at each other, until finally Felicity nodded and turned away. It wasn’t good enough, his promise to try. But it was all they had left.

END

**Author's Note:**

> I just really needed Felicity to draw some lines in the sand with Oliver, so I ended up writing sad, sad angstiness.


End file.
